This is the story of Eilidh, Ben, Tom and Tom’s overland journey from Melbourne, Australia to Appin, Scotland. We drove 56,650km over 1,080.5 hours, crossed 43 countries and took 339 days, and we want to share our experience with you. Find us on facebook at facebook.com/4guysinacar .

Tuesday, 29 January 2013

We should have only had 200km to the Serbian border, but we
mistakenly took the advice of the guy working at our hostel in Sarajevo, and
took a ridiculous detour. He warned us that the roads would be very very icy
and it would actually be quicker to take the motorway despite the fact that it
was much further. On his suggested route though we still ended up driving on
some of the iciest and steepest roads we’ve encountered on this trip, on top of
doubling back heinously, and realised that we would have been better off just
going on the roads that we had originally planned. Well you live and learn – we
will never take that guy’s driving advice again.

Annoyingly, because of this completely useless detour we
ended up on one of the most – if not the most – exhausting and dangerous long
drives we’ve done. The road was narrow and ever so steep and windy, ravelling
itself around the Bosnian mountains. Although it was evident that part of the
surface had been cleared of snow at some point, it was still completely covered
in several centimetres and we had to stop and engage 4WD several times to make
it up slopes. We’ve driven on plenty of roads like this, but what set this
drive apart was the sheer distance that these conditions went on for. On one
stretch of road where we were descending, a line of trucks travelling in the
opposite direction were parked on the road, blocking the way for a stream of
cars behind them. As if it wasn’t challenging enough to control the car
already, this was an extra obstacle made un-necessarily more difficult by the
fact that a lot of the drivers had decided to step onto the road for a breath
of fresh air. Despite the fact that as drivers they should have a pretty good
idea of how driving in these conditions is, they failed to move out the way as
we approached. Fortunately nothing came of it, but it was exhausting and
strenuous to avoid this dangerous scenario. A kilometre or so down the road a
snow clearer passed us and we realised that they were all awaiting his arrival
to ease their driving conditions.

After all this we didn’t make it to the border until after
8pm. We breathed a sigh of relief when nobody asked for our Bosnian insurance
documents and therefore didn’t notice that we had overstayed our insurance by
one day. After being waved through the Bosnian side of the border we crossed a
bridge, which seeing as a lot of borders are drawn through rivers is quite
normal in no man’s lands. What was amusing in a pathetic sort of way though was
that at the other side of the bridge we were stopped at a booth. Assuming that
this was some sort of official border post (well, as official as they get), we
presented our passports, to which the man manning the booth snorted and
presented us with a receipt for €2. We realised that this was in fact a
toll booth for the bridge, situated in the unavoidable location of no man’s
land. It’s not like we could go back or take another route is it? Baffled we
paid the nominal fee. It’s an interesting way of presenting it, but I suppose
this is their version of the small, not-worth-fighting-over “service fee” that
we’ve come across so many times before.

At the Serbian part of the crossing we were of course asked
the inevitable green card question. This time Ben went for a more “please take
pity on us” method than we usually go in for, resignedly acknowledging the fact
that we would have to pay more money yet again, even though we have already
paid so much. “We wouldn’t expect you to go out of your way to check that our
insurance is valid, I know you’re just doing your job, we don’t blame you, I
don’t want to cause you any trouble, etc.” After being told several times that
we would have to pay regardless, the lady who was mainly dealing with us
disappeared for a while, and returned with the good news. They were going to
accept our own insurance and didn’t require us to buy theirs! For the first
time in this part of the trip, Ben had managed to wriggle us out of buying the
useless and entirely bureaucratic insurance that we were becoming quite sick
of. Taking only half an hour in total, and costing us a total amount of €2,
we left this particular crossing pretty satisfied.

The next challenge – which we didn’t anticipate to be a
challenge – was the search for accommodation. Apparently rural Serbian towns,
and in fact anywhere other than Belgrade, don’t have any accommodation. We
spent the next three hours looking for somewhere and in all that time only
found a couple of very expensive hotels. As it approached midnight it seemed as
if we’d be arriving in Belgrade that night. It was obviously much too late to
try and meet up with our Couch Surfing host, and finding a hostel in the wee
hours is far from ideal, but it seemed we would have no choice.

Just 40 km from Belgrade though we found a typically
run-down Communist-era hotel called Hotel Obrenovac. It cost a bit more than we
were hoping to pay, but we settled anyway, and spent the night in the type of
hotel that we haven’t really come across since Central Asia. Built in the usual
Soviet architectural style, with several floors, hundreds of rooms, a bar which
I’m sure was classy, or at least expensive, at some point in time, but is now
just a smelly and seedy reminder of days gone past, a full reception and two disturbingly
ancient elevators, this establishment, like all the similar ones we’ve come across,
scream out-dated and un-used extravagance. Wandering the ghost-like corridors
and staring at the building from the state-of-the-art-50-years-ago balconies,
you can imagine a time when the rooms were booked out, the bar was buzzing and
the lobby was jostling and lively. It’s hard to know though whether that really
was every the case, or whether these hotels – especially ones like this which
aren’t located near to anything of note – ever had a hay-day. Were they just
plonked in a spot that someone in an office decided looked like a good spot on
the map, as is the case with so many things, including towns? “There aren’t any
hotels here, that looks like a good spot. It will have 1,000 beds.”

Sunday, 27 January 2013

We were greatly looking forward to our visit to Sarajevo. As
the capital of Bosnia Herzegovina, a now independent country that is still
amidst restoration after being ravaged by war in the 90’s, formerly part of the
Yugoslavian Republic, and under Communism for most of its modern history, we
knew that we were going to have a lot to see and a lot to learn. According to
every guide book type source though, Sarajevo’s night life is fully repaired and
it is quite an exciting European capital. We were also hopeful that after
failing on finding somewhere to ski so far, we might get an opportunity here.

Arriving in Sarajevo a couple of its features struck us
prominently: the first is that it is a beautiful city with a lot of historical
buildings, a well-maintained old town, nice views from the hill the city is
built on, and spectacular countryside surrounding it. The other feature though
is the much more surreal fact that a vast majority of the buildings –
historical, Soviet, residential, commercial, central and suburban alike – are
covered in bullet holes. Many of them have been patched in places of structural
importance, but very few have been done up cosmetically, and even fewer have
been entirely re-built.

The Tunnel Museum, located near the airport on the outskirts
of Sarajevo was, as far as we were concerned, a must-see. A small museum has
been put together around the remaining 20m section of the supply tunnel that
was built and used during the Serbian-inflicted Sarajevo Siege. Lasting for almost
four years, making it the longest siege in modern history, claiming around
12,000 lives, and leaving Bosnia Herzegovina’s capital city in a state of
extreme devastation and disrepair, this part of the country’s history is
amongst the most horrific and confronting that we’ve come across. The tunnel
ran for almost 1,000m underneath the UN controlled air base, connecting
Sarajevo to the rest of the Bosniac controlled areas. country which was not
under siege, and providing the only means of transportation for food, medical
equipment, and military supplies to the city itself.

The museum was relatively difficult to find, as even though
there are signs from the main road towards the museum, there are no directions
once you get to the windy and un-marked side streets. We found ourselves taking
a wrong turn and ending up approaching the secure zone around the still heavily
militarised airport, where we were of course stopped by police. Using the
“thankyou so much for stopping us, please help us with directions” method of
avoiding questioning, which in this case was more than the truth, but has
served us very well previously, we were pointed towards the museum. Down a
couple of pot-holed side streets and past some more abundantly bullet-holed
homes, we came to the humble museum.

Costing only 5 Marks (AU$3.30) to enter the small but very
tactful and heart-wrenching museum, the experience was well worth it. We were
welcomed with a video about the war and specifically the role this tunnel
played in it, which of course we couldn’t understand the words of, but the
pictures said enough. We were then shown the remaining section of tunnel, a few
individual stories, some products from the time, and of course pictures of the
tunnel in use. One particular display that pulled at the heart strings was the
chair that was designed for the disabled leader of the country at the time to
run on the rails inside the tunnel. Despite his physical disability, and the
fact that he could have used this as an escape route to take himself to safety
and relative comfort, he helped the project and nobly returned to Sarajevo just
as everyone else did.

Even at such a site, there is always someone trying to take
advantage of others and make a buck at every opportunity. The owner of the
house next door to this one advertised on the street that there was museum
parking, and when we went in, he tried to charge us even though the museum
itself provides free parking and is located on a dirt road, next to fields, on
the very outskirts of town where parking is acceptable anywhere. Not only this
but he also had a little stall of tacky souvenirs completely unrelated to this
museum, set up just on his side of the fence separating the two properties,
which he stood next and spruiked for as we explored the exhibits in the museum.
It is so sad that even something so noble, put together by non-profiteering individuals
for the sake of preserving this important piece of Sarajevo’s history, should
be tarnished by this type of obnoxious selfishness.

The History Museum, located across the road from the largest
US Embassy in Europe, is inside a building which represents the pinnacle of
Soviet architecture. As we drove past, the broken windows, myriads of graffiti
and rubbish, and boarded-up main entrance almost had us convinced that the
museum, at least at this location, was closed. Fortunately though we decided to
stop and have a quick check and lo and behold, the grey cement block had just
been left to disrepair but was in fact still working as the History Museum.
Strangely enough it was even colder inside the building than it was outside – a
testament to the unique standard of building implemented by the Soviet Union.The array of artefacts, posters, people’s
belongings, diary entries, advertising, photographs and memorabilia relating to
the Sarajevo Siege was highly insightful and we could have spent hours
inspecting each exhibit individually. Unfortunately though the day was drawing
to a close and we planned to go on a free walking tour at 4pm.

We rushed back to the centre of town and to the meeting
point for the tour which happened to be the office of the organiser. When we
arrived though, we were informed that he had decided for undisclosed reasons
that the tour which “runs every day without fail” wouldn’t run today. We
suspect that cups of tea in his nicely heated office was most enticing than
dragging a handful of tourists around the city at dusk.

Much to our delight we succeeded in our endeavour of fitting
in a day of skiing, and not just at any old mountain, but at the location of
the men’s events at the 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics. The two mountains which
hosted the men’s and women’s events – Bjelašnica and Jahorina respectively
– are located not far from the city itself and make a very convenient day trip.
We chose to go toBjelašnica, and whilst being great fun, was certainly a
challenge! Runs marked as “intermediate” at this mountain are harder than most
“expert” runs in Australia, and we disappointedly realised that despite our
best intentions, we in fact probably aren’t Winter Olympics material. It was a
bit of a stretch, but a very fitting start to our European ski season. Even
after 29 years, the souvenir shops of Sarajevo are still littered with
merchandise and advertising for the 1984 Winter Olympics.

Wednesday, 23 January 2013

The peculiar thing about the border town at the crossing
between Montenegro and Bosnia Herzegovina was that it wasn’t a few kilometres
away on either side as is usually the case, but instead it literally straddled
the imaginary line dissecting Tara River. So we entered Šćepan Polje, a small resort village set
up for the popular water and mountaineering activities in the area, and found
the border post lodged bizarrely amidst the houses and restaurants.

Our passports were checked and stamped, our insurance documents
for which we had paid €15 for one day were completely ignored and we were sent
onwards towards our next destination. This no man’s land was peculiar; the only
time that we’ve crossed one side of a border, entered no man’s land, and found
ourselves in a town. It must be quite amusing for anyone who has chosen to stay
in Šćepan Polje as a launching pad for the plethora of outdoor activities, and
find yourself crossing either border to travel in any direction. It was all the
odder for us because in winter of course, it becomes a ghost town.

We followed the road down to the river where a rickety bridge
welcomed us to Bosnia Herzegovina. On the other side of the river we were waved
down by a confused looking border guard, and we noticed that there was no
insurance building – a good sign, which we were becoming accustomed to looking
for. The usual documents were taken aside (passports, registration, Carnet de
Passage and insurance), and we waited patiently to find out our fate (whether
we had to buy insurance or not).

Of course the old green card question was raised, and we responded
with our usual array of responses: “no green card, in Australia we don’t have
green card, we have insurance though, valid for the whole world, etc.” But no,
we were required to either have a green card, or purchase insurance at the
border. But where were we supposed to buy it from? There was nothing there
except a small hut with three guards, a welcome to Herzegovina sign, a river
and a bunch of trees. Well to add insult to injury, we were pointed back
towards Montenegro and told that we had to re-trace our steps and buy insurance
from Montenegro, for a price they had no idea of, then come back and show it to
these guards.

So back over the rickety bridge we went, past the “Thanks for
visiting Bosnia Herzegovina” and “Welcome to Montenegro” signs, up the slippery
hill, and to the opposite side of the original building we were stopped at. Ben
took our documents to the nearby cafe which doubled as an insurance broker,
where he found two men drinking beer and chain-smoking whilst enjoying a
European handball match on their retro television set. He established that
insurance was what he was looking for, and waited while one of them retrieved
an ancient piece of paper from a drawer and then ran his fingers along the axes
of the table printed on said paper. For the first time we were offered a
minimum of three days of insurance (ironically for the only country we were
planning to spend more than two days in since Greece). Unfortunately it was
still more expensive than 15 days in Montenegro had been. Three days would cost
us €26, and five days would be €50. Ben made an executive decision to go with
three days, made the payment, and waited for the paperwork to be filled in.

Back down the hill, across the bridge, farewell Montenegro, hello
Bosnia, and to the Bosnian guards. This time we were approved and with a smile
and a wave, were allowed to pass into the country.

Monday, 21 January 2013

We decided to skip Podgorica all together given our imminent time limit (now 8 days to see Montenegro,
Bosnia Herzegovina, Serbia and get to Budapest in time for Christmas), and instead headed towards the impressive sounding Ostrog Monastery. As a general rule we try and avoid visiting monasteries and cathedrals just for the
sake of it, in the same way as we avoided going to every mosque and temple earlier on in the trip. Too many people get “templed out” or “cathedraled out” and we have long enough and are covering enough distance that
we can afford to pick and choose the special ones. It’s very tempting just to stop at every monastery that we pass: “Well we’re passing anyway, we may as well just stop and have a squiz – it looks nice.” But we have
made a concerted effort not to get “place of worshipped out” and so far have done quite well at visiting just the right amount to keep us interested.

Ostrog Monastery, carved into the rocky side of a mountain 900m above the Zeta Valley, seemed to
fit the category of being worth a visit. Deemed the most important site for Orthodox Christians in all of Montenegro, which considering the size of the country may not be such a huge claim to fame, but never the less is certainly
a spectacular site. The lower monastery isn’t carved into the cliff face, but was built using the more traditional method of bricks on bricks on top of the ground. From there a 2 m wide un-made track, covered in ice and
sludge during our visit, literally zig-zags up the remainder of the hillside to the upper monastery. In summer the place is apparently swarmed by inappropriately dressed snap-happy tourists and bare-footed pilgrims, so despite
the fact that it’s cold and a lot of attractions are closed for winter, this is one example of when it is delightful to miss peak season. A hand full of visitors arrived while we were there, not pilgrims as such, but obviously
there for religious purposes. They crossed themselves, lit candles, and quietly prayed to the appropriate pictures and statues, before respectfully retreating back to their cars to make the dangerous descent to the lower monastery.

The gleaming white stone structure that fronts the carved out rooms and caves is truly magnificent,
majestically towering over the beautiful Zeta Valley and gloriously housing a selection of impressive shrines and monuments. Unfortunately it was incredibly foggy while we were there, but based on the drive up to the monastery,
we can safely say that the view from the top would have been breath-taking.

The other place that grabbed our fancy was Tara Canyon in Durmitor National Park, an area that is
littered with dramatic mountains, glacial lakes and a stupendous variety of birds and mammals. There is a €2 entry fee to the park, which we avoided by skirting the edge instead of actually entering. From here you can
still get a great view of the Tara Canyon, but in order to see more of the area you would have to pay the fee.

With a maximum depth of 1,300 m (to put this in context, Colorado’s Grand Canyon reaches 1,500
m), the Tara Canyon is a magnificent amalgamation of water streaked cliff faces and the dazzling sapphire coloured river that has sliced through the limestone. In summer an 82 km stretch of Tara River is a popular rafting
destination, amongst an assortment of other outdoor activities in the national park, but of course none of this was available for us during winter. The only activity we had to keep us entertained was throwing rocks down the
side of the cliff and watching them roll down the rugged slope before splashing into the deep river, hoping not to cause an avalanche.

We followed the road around the canyon, intending to drive towards Bosnia Herzegovina and find somewhere
to stay on the way. In many places the road was crudely tunnelled through the rock, not concreted or reinforced, but left naked so it’s just you and the rock. Some partial tunnels were scattered between the real tunnels;
the type of ones that are popular in Austria and Switzerland where there’s a roof over the road, it’s enclosed on the mountain side, and columns suspend the roof on the valley side. The most notable thing on that drive
though was the regularity of snow avalanches evident on the road. Some were obviously reasonably fresh and had to be carefully manoeuvred around, but for the most part the pile of snow that had landed on the road was neatly
sliced, leaving a gap wide enough to drive through, a wall of snow on either side.

What we’d failed to realise in our planning of the evening was just how tiny Montenegro is, and
the extent to which there would be literally nothing between Tara Canyon, or even Ostrog Monastery for that matter, and Bosnia Herzegovina. We took a small detour down an obscenely muddy and icy track, following signs for
an eco-lodge, but all we found was a burnt-out hut and a hand-full of tractors. Before we knew it we had reached the border village of Šćepan Polje and it became apparent that our only option was to cross the border then
and look for somewhere to stay on the other side.

We certainly hadn’t planned on spending only one day in Montenegro, but the sheer minisculinity
of the country got the better of us and before we knew it we had accidentally left the country.

Having not crossed the border until after 4pm, it was well after dark as we drove across the majority
of the tiny country of Montengro. Yet again, we were impressed by the quality of the roads, and most importantly the extent to which the metre or so of snow had been cleared from them. We reached Podgorica, Montenegro’s
capital city with a population of approximately 150,000 and began the search for accommodation, only to be met by the realisation that aside from a couple of expensive hotels, we had no options. After aimlessly searching for
a while and thinking that we had potentially come across Europe’s most non-eventful capital, we eventually gave up and decided to grab a meal and head back to the countryside to try some of the roadside type places that
we dismissed on the way into town because of their location.

The first place we chose to stop for a bite to eat involved parking 2 metres away from the kerb because
of the piles of cleared snow. Despite the classy table settings and extensive menu presented to us on arrival, we discovered that pancakes were the only item on sale, so decided to try elsewhere. A few blocks away we found
a humble looking restaurant which turned out to be either run by a church, or in support of a church. Saintly figures looked over us, suspended from the naked brick walls, as we sat at the pews that were used as chairs, and
were informed in English by the gentle but friendly waiter that due to the date it was fasting time, so only a limited menu was available. During our hearty meal of non-expensive home-made soup and pizzas, our lovely waiter
appeared and anxiously explained that we had parked in a restricted space and must move our car otherwise the police will tow it. (Of course he knew which car was ours – there weren’t that many people hanging around that
matched a large Australian 4x4 covered in a collection of international stickers.)

As Tom and Tom had already finished eating they went out to attend to the situation. It appeared
that we had inadvertently parked in the spot reserved for the Serbian ambassador, which of course had been the only space available on this busy strip of shops, restaurants and bars. It seemed like a peculiar place for an
embassy, not to mention how unusual it is that there only be one car parking spot reserved for the staff, and it be located in front of a busy night club. It made us wonder as to the nature of the embassy, but nevertheless
we had evidently missed the parking sign and were therefore in the wrong, which was supposedly fineable for an amount of €70. Denner expertly negotiated with the police man who was ever so understanding of the fact that
we’re ignorant tourists and immediately dropped his price to €50. Denner agreed and began asking for directions to the police station, knowing very well that the police man would be even less inclined to waste time
doing this officially than we were. Funnily enough the price was dropped again as he was ever so considerate and wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing us with all the paperwork, but Denner persisted with the “I’m calling
your bluff, take me to the police station” method. After a few more price droppings and some attempted suggestions of paying cash there and then to avoid difficulties, Denner had wriggled us out of this one. In the mean
time Tunkles moved the car to a few spots along, and we hastily finished our meals and left the vicinity.

There was a handful of roadside motels and cheap hotels in the area surrounding the city, but they
all cost much more than we were looking to spend, so we kept travelling to Hostel Izvor which we noticed the sign for on the way in, but had thought “pfft, who would ever want to stay in a hostel this far away even from
the outskirts of the town?”. Well as it turns out, it is the only budget option in “Podgorica” (I use inverted commas as I struggle to classify it as in the city when the city itself only spans 2 km, and this is 5 km
from the outermost point) and certainly the only hostel. It was actually a lovely setting, perched in a valley surrounded by snow capped mountains and a partially frozen river, and as there was nothing that especially took
our interest inside the city, it worked out fine for us anyway.

Saturday, 19 January 2013

The drive from Pristina to the border with Montenegro was a
spectacular one, right up there with what we were faced with as we entered
Albania (BlogDay 261 – A snow-coveredborder crossing, and an abundance of stolen vehicles). Reaching the border
post at about half past three in the afternoon (or evening I suppose it should
be considered in this part of the world at this time of year), dusk was
approaching, and the sun was setting behind the tree-covered snowy mountains
that we were winding our way around.

Leaving Kosovo was simple; no more than a flick through our
passports before we were waved forwards. Usually no man’s land is anywhere from
no distance at all – ie. the two borders literally share a fence as was the
case between Turkmenistan and Iran, to a couple of kilometres between the zones.
This one though seemed to go on forever. We left Kosovo’s border area and
expected to find Montenegro’s just around the corner, but instead we travelled
10km, which took 15 minutes on the windy, icy mountain road. We were starting
to consider whether we had either missed something, and were even thinking that
perhaps Montenegro didn’t control their own border at this point, but sure
enough just as we were preparing celebrations for an unbelievably easy
crossing, the small group of huts and shelters appeared over a crest.

We were of course asked to stop the vehicle, present out
passports and car documents, and open the back of the car for inspection. One
man disappeared with our passports, another shone a torch into our boot and
decided it was probably fine, while another took care of the car documents,
which of course involved the tedious questioning of our possession of a green
card.

“No,” we had to frustratingly inform the guards that we are
not in possession of the Europe-wide insurance document known as a “green card”.

“You need green card,” was solemnly re-iterated.

“In Australia, no green card, we have insurance for the
whole world though,” but of course they don’t care about the actual nature of
insurance that one may or may not have, as long as they can tick their paperwork
boxes.

So yet again, we were sent to the conveniently placed
insurance broker at the next building who entered our details into a
surprisingly official looking computer program which told him that we should
pay €15
for the minimum 15 day time period. This is another annoying thing – with our
very rushed tour of the Balkans in order to reach Budapest by Christmas, we
were only spending a couple of days in each country, yet 15 days seemed to be
the standard minimum for insurance purchasing.

While we were waiting for our passports to be stamped and
our insurance papers to be printed and signed, a very friendly and easily
excitable guard approached us and handed over a bunch of pamphlets entitled “USPORI,
ŽIVOT
JE JEDAN”, or in the English translation “SLOW DOWN, LIFE IS ONE”. Aside from a
detailed map and a useful list of emergency phone numbers, the pamphlet was
laid out with some graphic car crash photographs and a list of concerning road
traffic statistics, beside the reassurance that “Risks in road traffic are on
the first place of harmful consequences they have”. The campaign is obviously
directed at holiday makers in summer, making use of Montenegro’s fine coast
line and beautiful landscape, and consequently forgetting how to drive. None-the-less
though, we were provided with some very useful information about the most
common causes of traffic accidents being things such as fatigue, speed and “bad
cognition of the road or part of the road”, and the most common time and place
of traffic accidents being weekends, near seaside towns and “1st and
15th day of a month”. Despite some amusing oddities and
translations though, we actually considered that this was the first piece of
safety awareness advertising that we have received on this whole trip. Go
Montenegro.

All in all the process took 50 minutes, including 15 minutes
driving through the most impressive no man’s land we’ve experienced yet.
(Unless you include China to Kazakhstan, but that was impressive in a military
in the desert type of way: Blog Crossing the Chinese - Kazakh Border, by Ben Crowley.)

Wednesday, 16 January 2013

After the pile of snow that was the roads in Albania, we
were surprised at the relief that the road into Kosovo brought. Largely
supported by overseas aid, the roads and general infrastructure in Kosovo, and
most notably the capital city Pristina, was far more impressive than we had
expected. Oddly, it suddenly got foggy as we crossed the border, but the wide
motorway was perfectly cleared and in immaculate condition. As we headed
towards Pristina, we passed a series of petrol stations, all brightly lit up
with flashing lights, ribbons, flags, Christmas decorations and television
screens. At first we thought it was a particular company’s form of advertising,
or perhaps it was just for Christmas, but then we realised that this is just
what petrol stations in Kosovo look like. We really can’t figure out why this
is the case or where the style has come from.

Dropping to -17 °C overnight in Pristina, our tour of
the frozen Balkans continued. Even with clear, sunny days, the temperature
didn’t rise high enough for the snow to even think about melting. We could tell
the snow hadn’t actually fallen for a while, but the ground was still thickly
covered in the sandy, brown powder that snow becomes when not given the
opportunity to melt for an extended period of time.

We had been advised that Pristina was a nice city, but we
weren’t quite sure what to expect. As it turns out though our advisors were
correct – it really is a very pretty, modern city. Without meeting any locals,
it’s hard to know what the real state of life is, but funded by aid from
predominantly the EU and the USA, you could never tell from the surface that
Kosovo isn’t another well-to-do Western European country. The pedestrian mall
in the centre of town was wonderfully lit up with a breath-taking ceiling of
fairy lights and the buildings were glowing with their own light displays.

Besides being clean and pretty, there wasn’t a whole lot to
do in Pristina. The Bill Clinton statue, mounted on a podium beside an American
flag, a poster of the man towering over the intersection that it’s located at,
is one of Kosovo’s main attractions. The National Museum mostly housed the
usual array of ancient artefacts, and as stated clearly on several signs inside
the small museum, disappointingly a large proportion of the exhibits from this
museum are held under force by Serbia. The bazaar was little more than a group
of fruit and veg, socks and thermals, and fireworks stalls, but the night life
was surprisingly active, especially considering the weather.

Walking along the pedestrian mall in the afternoon, Ben and
Tunkles lagged a few paces behind and when they caught up they were very
excited to tell us the story of what they just witnessed. A pigeon lay in the
snow, limp and clearly lifeless, and an elderly man walked upto it and lifted
the bird into his hands. Lifting his hands to his face, he breathed on the
pigeon, and after a couple of strokes the wings fluttered and it took off from
the palms of this man’s hands.

Tuesday, 15 January 2013

It was a grey and overcast day as we approached the Macedonian
border near the town of Florina. The drive from the previous night's
camp site was fairly uneventful, as was the mostly flat, green
agricultural land we were now passing through. Around 1:30, the
Greek customs/immigration terminal emerged in the distance, and just
behind that, a Macedonian flag. Exiting Greece was no problem
whatsoever; a cursory glance through our passports and vehicle
documents, before stamping us out of the country. This is the type
crossing we've come to enjoy in Europe, quick and painless. This one
however was about to come to a grinding halt.

We continued on through no-man's land to the Macedonian
terminal. The official in the booth asked us for passports and
vehicle documentation as per usual, which we obligingly handed over.
He sifted through our passports checking names and faces, pausing a
moment longer as he tried to reconcile my 16yr old passport photo
with the now slightly more mature looking bearded face in front of
him. Content with who we were, he then moved on to the vehicle
documents, and here we ran into a problem. It is compulsory in
Macedonia, as it is in most countries in this part of the world, to
have vehicle insurance, usually documented by the infamous “green
card”. Greece had allowed us to pass into their country with our
original insurance documents from Malaysia, but after much debate
the Macedonian officials made it clear that unless we had a green
card, we would have to buy insurance from the border.

We had anticipated this might be a problem, and begrudgingly
accepted we would just have to pay the 55 Euros to enter the
country. There was a slight problem though: none of us had
anticipated it enough to bring Euros. We had in fact all
deliberately spent our remaining cash on gas, petrol and other
assorted non perishables in preparation for the next few countries
which were not on the Euro, so as not to have extra money just
floating around. Of course they didn't take card so we asked the
head official if there was a Bankomat anywhere in the vicinity. He
replied that there was nothing on the Macedonian side, but possibly
at the service station just before the border on the Greek side.
Someone was going to have to run back across the border and get some
money, and the logical choice was someone with an EU passport.

I walked back across no-man's land and through the Greek border,
asking about the closest Bankomat on the way. The officials on the
Greek side were pretty sure the closest one was actually in Florina,
18 km away, and sure enough, the service station attendant said the
same thing. This changed things slightly, but the fact remained we
still needed the money, so I would have to go to Florina. I
considered going back across the border again to tell everyone what
I was doing, but I realised it had already taken about 20 minutes
just to get to here, and if I did it would mean crossing through
Greek immigration a total of five times in one day, which might
raise an eyebrow. Alternately, if I go now I'll probably be back in
about 45 min-1 hour. A little longer than expected, but cash in
hand, and problem solved.

I decided to go for it, and began to head up the road to
Florina. The third car which passed me pulled over. It was an
elderly Greek couple in a tired looking blue hatch-back. Neither of
them spoke a word of English, but “Florina” they understood and
beckoned me to take a seat in the back. I began thinking how well
everything was going; five minutes and I've already got a lift. Then
we turned off the main road to Florina, and I started to worry
again. I said Florina again a few more times to the driver, and
indicated to myself to ensure I was getting the point across. He
seemed to understand well enough so I hoped it was just an alternate
route. If it wasn't I was going to end up in a village somewhere far
away from Florina or the border, and that would make things very
very difficult.

The fact that I knew no Greek, and this couple knew no English
was only a very mild dampener on conversation. The co-pilot in
particular sat herself half swivelled in the passenger seat to face
me, providing a continuous verbal stream, regardless of my mostly
non-committal “sorry, I don't understand”answers. We did however
manage to establish that I was Australian (which judging by the
response was pretty exciting), and that they had some family in
Melbourne. I also managed to establish that this couple (or rather
this man) had been driving for about 12hours or so already. Not an
unimpressive achievement for an 80something year old, if slightly
worrying.

The “conversation” continued, as the car swerved from one
side of the road to the other, using its entire width to try to
avoid the potholes in one of Greece's less well maintained roads. We
sped through farmland and country villages, until finally a great
sense of relief washed over me. We had just passed a sign telling us
we were entering Florina, and as we rounded the corner at top speed,
the town appeared before us. The couple drove through the centre of
town, and I asked them to stop and let me out. At this point they
started asking me quite excitedly if I'd like to continue to
Thessaloniki. I had to decline several times as politely as possible
before I could exit the car. The disappointment printed on their
faces made me feel guilty enough to momentarily consider getting
back in the car, but common sense quickly gave me a slap in the back
of the head. I thanked them for the lift, and waved them on their
way. Conveniently I happened to be standing right next to a
bankomat, so withdrew sufficient funds to cover the insurance. So
far so good, now I just needed a lift back to the border, and we
could be on our way.

I walked to the main road out of town heading to the Macedonian
border, and started trying to hail cars. Initially I had quite a few
people stop for me, but unfortunately they were all headed to a
football match which also happened to be about a km down this road.
I continued on, thinking it might be easier to get a lift once I was
past the football stadium, but once I was out of the football
traffic no one was stopping for me at all. After being picked up so
quickly the first time, I really thought it wouldn't take me more
than 20-30 minutes to get a lift, but it was getting on for an hour
now. To make things worse I had no way of contacting any of my
fellow travellers at the border, who were still under the impression
that I was just popping over to the service station, and to top it
off it was beginning to rain.

I continued walking for what was starting to seem like ages.
Traffic was regularly passing, but still no one was stopping. It
began to dawn on me that I might actually be walking the whole 18km
back., and maybe this wasn't the fantastic idea that I had thought
it was. I stopped at a garage in the middle of seemingly nowhere to
see if there was anyone who could help in any way, shape or form,
but the door was firmly locked, and there was no one there. Back to
the road then.

I remember at some point being told the average walking speed of
a person on flat ground is about 3km/h, so I started doing the maths
in my head. It was going to take me about 6 hours to walk back, by
which time the border will probably have closed, which meant that we
will be stuck here tonight, which meant that this would be hands
down the longest crossing so far, and I will be dealing with some
some very unhappy travellers. Then coming toward me from the
distance I noticed a car. Just a silhouette in the fading light at
this distance,but by now an all too familiar shape. The box-like
front profile perched on its wheelbase high above the road. Two
square, slightly yellowing headlights, shining over a slightly
lopsided front bumper, care of a scooter in Thailand. Finally the
unmistakable roof box & spare tyre combination, perched like a
tactical tiara over the roof of the vehicle. After two hours of
waiting, Ben and Eils had finally given up and taken Trev to come
and look for me, while Tom and Courtney were waiting in no-man's
land, just in case I managed to make it back undetected.

After waiting for so long they'd finally gone and asked the
border guards themselves and discovering that the closest bankomat
was 18 km away, had decided to begin the rescue mission. As we
headed back to the border I explained how it had gone so well, and
then so wrong. We exited Greece (again), collected Tom and Courtney,
bought the insurance and entered Macedonia. A ten minute border
crossing had taken three hours, but we had finally made it through.

Sunday, 13 January 2013

We really didn’t want to leave our Tiranian hosts, but
Christmas was fast approaching and we still had a fair bit of distance to cover
(Kosovo, Montenegro, Bosnia Herzegovina and Serbia) before reaching our
destination of Budapest eleven days later.

The road from Tirana to the Kosovan border was horrendously
snowy, completely uncleared in places, and barely cleared in others. It was a
very beautiful, but excruciatingly slow and tiring drive, and as it got dark we
hoped that the border would be open past 5pm. We couldn’t believe it when a
policeman waved us down at the bottom of a very narrow and steep stretch of
road, frustrated beyond belief that police all over the world have the
outrageous audacity to play their power games under such conditions. He began
with the usual “documenti,” to which we handed over a passport or a driver’s
licence or whichever document took our fancy (as they never seem to know what
they’re actually asking for, it never matters what we give them as long as it’s
something). He had a quick skim and started pointing at the front of the car.
Ben and Denner got out to have a look and realised we’d actually been pulled
over because one of our headlights was kaput. This seemed like a fair enough
reason actually, considering Albania has adopted the 24 hour compulsory
headlights rule, and it was dark by now anyway.

This policeman must have thought he’d struck jackpot – not
only had he pulled the only Western tourists on this road, but they actually
were breaking the law. Ben expertly fended off the proposals of paying him a
“small fee” to make the “big fine” go away, by using the “thankyou so much for
letting us know, you’re a good man, we’ll get it fixed right away, thankyou so
much” method and off we went.

We actually did need to get it fixed straight away though as
it would surely cause us more problems with every policeman we encountered, not
to mention the fact that we were about to cross a border, and of course the
whole issue of safety and what not. There was one more town before the border,
but the roads were so difficult to manoeuvre on and it was approaching 7pm by
now, so we tried the service stations on the main road first, but to no avail.

The funny thing about roads being chronically covered in
snow and ice is that road rules seem to go out the window, and everyone’s
priorities shift from driving in a straight line on the correct side of the
road, stopping at lights, indicating for turns etc (although these rules are
questionable in places anyway), and it just becomes a matter of staying on the
road and not crashing into each other. It’s the same general effect as the
hugely pot-holed, un-made roads of South East Asia and Central Asia. So we
adapted to snow rules; avoided a car driving the wrong way up the off-ramp,
skidded around a car parked in the middle of the single track road and bumped
across piles of blackened snow to an auto shop where we spent the last of our
Leke on a replacement light bulb.

Fortunately our auto shop attendant was very helpful and we
were relieved when he informed us that the border is open 24/7. The border
itself was refreshingly straight forward, taking a total of only 15 minutes.
Albania didn’t even stop us, so Kosovo took care of the entire process. We were
required to buy insurance which of course we were far from happy about. We
tried showing them our own insurance documents, but unless it’s the European
issued green card it’s not counted and we must purchase their own policy. It’s
incredibly frustrating because we know that if anything were to happen that
this insurance wouldn’t assist us in the slightest, but it’s their way of
taking a sort of road tax/processing fee from us. We’ve come to have a sense of
which battles are worth fighting though, and this wasn’t one of them, so we
paid €30
for 15 days and off we went to Kosovo.

Tuesday, 8 January 2013

Our Couch Surfing situation in Tirana was excellent: Scott
and Cortney, ex-pats from Canada and USA respectively, hosted us between them
in their neighbouring apartments. Scott’s boyfriend Robert was a week into his
three month stay, and Cortney’s German housemate Malwine had Ada to visit
during our stay aswell, so all in all we had a wide selection of hosts, all of
whom were fantastic.

As such, exploring Tirana was far more of a joy than it
otherwise would have been, in fact we greatly enjoyed our time there. We were
shocked by how evident the poverty was, even inside the city, which is
surprisingly unusual. In most countries we’ve been through, even the
horrifically poor ones, the cities haven’t represented that at all, certainly
not the capital. Whether artificially as is the case in Central Asia, or
naturally as is the case in China, residents of cities in most of the world at
least appear to dwell well above the poverty line.

You can say a lot of things about Albanians, but you can’t
say they’re not proud of their flag. The black two headed eagle on a vibrant
red background was literally flying everywhere. A huge one looked over the main
square, almost every building proudly housed at least one and each lamp post
was adorned with red and black ribbons and a coat of arms. A lot of countries
are very proud of their flag and love to fly it at every opportunity, but I
would say Albania has one of the stronger cases of flag-itis.

As mentioned in the previous blog (Day 261 – A snow-coveredborder crossing, and an abundance of stolen vehicles) there are a lot of stolen
foreign cars on the Albanian roads. Hand in hand with this, Albanians are also
shocking drivers.Cars were banned in
Albania until twenty years ago, so not only do they have the same situation as
a lot of poor countries where owning a car is such an important status symbol
that families who can barely afford food will go into a lifetime of debt in
order to own a car, but there’s the added idea of it being a modern novelty, a
sign of freedom.

The roads in Albania were peculiar. Driving from Ohrid,
Macedonia to Tirana we started on a very narrow, but surprisingly good quality
mountain pass, which as we reached the flat became a brand new motorway. The
road was unfinished, and seemed to have been left that way for some time, but
bizarrely cars were still driving over it. Because there was no signage or road
markings though, it was acceptable to drive on whichever part of the road took
your fancy, regardless of your direction of travel. To add to the oddity of
this haphazardly used brand new motorway, it was also unmade in places, just in
random sections where the road hadn’t yet been surfaced when they decided to
abandon the job. As we hit the outskirts of town, this road which wasn’t on any
of our maps, came to an abrupt end at a large pile of rubbish – as in a
landfill had just been dumped on top of the road. From there all the cars were
crossing over the dual-carriage way to squeeze into an unmade side-street which
happened to join up with a gap in the crash barrier. This was one of the most
severe bottle necks that any of us have experienced, and this was our
introduction to Tiranian driving.

It’s hard to make a
definitive verdict of who are the worst drivers we’ve come across, but
Albanians would definitely be up there. Laotians were shocking, but that was
more a result of how lazy they were, not bothering themselves with tasks such
as looking in one’s mirror or checking the road before pulling out. Tehran is
probably the most insane traffic we’ve been in, but the drivers all seemed very
competent – just cocky and reckless. They were squeezing through gaps smaller
than their vehicles and manoeuvring around obstacles as if it’s an every day
event – which it is. Phnom Penh in Cambodia was another city which was very
intense to drive in. This was a mixture of the typical South East Asian lack of
spatial awareness, high population density and shocking roads.

Tirana is quite a small city and there aren’t a lot of
spectacular sites to visit. We planned on looking for a Ukrainian embassy
whilst wandering around town, but of course no address or directions matched
up, so Ben went into a bank to see if they had any idea. The staff couldn’t
help in the slightest, but a young Albanian man sitting down presumably
discussing finances with a couple who were presumably his parents, stood up and
addressed Ben in a broad Northern English accent,

“Oi mate, Ukrainian embassy ay?”

“Yes, yes I am looking for the Ukrainian embassy.”

He turned back to his parents and spoke animatedly in
Albanian with them for a couple of minutes before ushering Ben outside.

“You wan’ a taxi, aw ya walkin’? Right, ya go down the
stree’ yeah? Turn righ’ at the end?...” and gave us fantastically specific
directions to the embassy complex, which we got to and discovered didn’t
contain anything to do with Ukraine.

We wondered whether this was an Albanian man who’s been
living in England for years, and was just home for a family visit. Or more
cynically, is he one of these infamous car runners?

When we stopped for lunch in a small town on our way to
Tirana the day we arrived, we found that the majority of “cafes” in fact only
sold drinks. This was something we were frustrated to experience again in
Tirana, and didn’t really find an explanation for. Is there some financial or
cultural reason for this phenomenon? Or is it simply that they start off with
good intentions, print menus and install signs, and then realise that it’s much
easier just to sell soft drinks and tea than run a kitchen?

Monday, 7 January 2013

When people ask how the car’s held up having driven close to
50,000 km, across 31 countries (upto and including Romania), battling with horrendous
roads and extreme weather conditions, we like to brag about how well we’re
doing. Up until some point in the Balkans we would answer with,

“We’ve had a couple of flats – as expected, but other than
that we’ve had to repair a window from a break-in, a broken lock from a
break-in, the mechanism for our electric window for the boot is gradually
deteriorating but still working, and the barrel for the ignition jammed whilst
in Kazakhstan, but we got it fixed easily. Nothing major.” (Blog Day 131 - Trevor’s Revenge)

As we hit South Eastern Europe though, winter suddenly set
in and with the roads becoming constantly icy and snowy we began considering
the option of replacing our tyres with winter tyres. It is a legal requirement
in most European countries for 2WDs to have winter tyres on during winter but with
4WD it’s not against the law for us to continue driving on our regular tyres.
Our main concern though was that it would be much safer, not to mention easier,
if we had the proper tyres. We were a little loathe to ditch our current tyres
though because they were still in reasonable condition and were certainly fine
for non-snow driving. When we had Trevor serviced in Belgrade, Serbia, we
enquired about winter tyres, but were quoted about €150 per tyre and that mechanic
didn’t even have any. We would stop intermittently at tyre yards we came across
and check out options in supermarkets and such like, but couldn’t find any that
would fit our specifications.

As time progressed and the weather got milder in Central
Europe we leaned away from the idea of purchasing winter tyres, considering
we’d already completed a fair whack of snow driving and for the most part
(except perhaps for Romania, Ukraine and Moldova) now would at least have the
option of good roads. The tyres had suddenly started looking much barer by now
though, especially in a couple of places, and around New Year though we did
start discussing the option of just getting new summer tyres (much cheaper than
winter tyres). Every day we could notice the particular points which were
waring through quicker and the tread seemed to be disappearing in front of our
eyes. Our search for new tyres became more serious.

We left Prague on January 4th, and got to
Budapest on January 5th to pick up Ben’s forgotten shoes and mail
from our families which hadn’t quite made it in time for Christmas. Planning to
camp somewhere on our way to Romania, we stopped at a Lidl on the outskirts of Budapest
to pick up some groceries for dinner, and when we returned to the car realised
that it was on a disturbing angle and sure enough – we had a flat.

Denner removed the offending tyre for inspection and
discovered that it had not in fact punctured in one spot, but had just worn so
thin on one side that there were at least three places where air was leaking
from the rubber. Realising that this was beyond repair Denner took the spare
off the roof, which is the one that was first punctured at the Ho Chi Minh
Trail in Laos (Blog Day 79 – Car Incidents) and because of the location of the
hole was unable to be fixed permanently. Seeing it’s been out of use for the
majority of the trip though, it’s still in great condition other than the
puncture. He patched it up with our temporary repair kit (basically a flexible stick
of rubber which is pushed through the puncture with a heavy duty needle,
literally blocking the puncture) and we continued on our way.

We realised that the tyre was slowly leaking as soon as we
started driving, but after about ten minutes we heard the dreaded crash of
metal rim against road as the stick of rubber popped completely out. This time
we didn’t have the luxury of being in the well-lit and empty Lidl carpark, but
were instead on the side of a dark residential suburban road.

Realising that we now desperately needed at least one new
tyre, though in reality we really needed two replaced, and ideally all four, we
thought about our options, and much to our horror realised that it wasn’t just
9pm, it was 9pm on Saturday. Nothing would be open the following day.

Denner patched the tyre again using an extra long stick of
rubber, hoping it would stay jammed in more successfully this time. After over
two hours of working on this tyre situation, we tensely and carefully looked
for a camping spot, cautiously avoiding any unnecessary off-road driving,
expecting the tyre to burst at any moment. Joyfully though we found a place to
camp (one of our worst spots yet in some sort of tree plantation, a few metres
off a busy thoroughfare between villages, on very lumpy ground) without our
very fragile tyre bursting again.

We considered back-tracking to Budapest in the morning,
thinking that in a major capital we’d be more likely to find somewhere open on
a Sunday, but made the decision to take our chances and push on, knowing that
it was still unlikely we’d even find anywhere in Budapest anyway. So we hobbled
on towards Romania, our front right tyre completely bald on both edges (the
original one we were concerned about), the back left threatening to spontaneously
combust at any moment (the spare which was originally punctured in Laos, now
precariously patched), and the spare completely useless with not a bit of tread
left, metal poking through the rubber, and at least three individual punctures.

As everyone seems to want to be a business owner but can’t
be bothered learning how to become a mechanic or something else, there are
umpteen tyre shops dotted in districts along every road. We stopped at every
single one, dozens in total, but much to our frustration no amount of rattling
gates, pressing buzzers, calling out, or provoking dog barking, alerted
anyone’s attention to us. Every metre travelled was an achievement, and at the
same time a metre closer to the potential pop that would render us unable to
drive on. Relieved to have made it to the Romanian border, we decided to stay
the night in the border town of Oradea.

Despite the fact that the following day happened to be the
12th Day of Christmas and therefore a minor public holiday, we found
the usual array of tyre shops, all of which were open. Weighing up the options
available we ended up with two new winter tyres on our front wheels, the two
heavily-worn-but-not-disastrous ones at the back, the completely bald one on
the roof as a spare, and we hummed and hawed about whether to keep the
reasonably un-worn but punctured beyond permanent repair one as an extra spare.
We decided against it though, and €210 and an hour and a half later we
were on our merry way to Transylvania.

Tuesday, 1 January 2013

Leaving Ohrid we didn’t have far to drive to our next
destination which was Tirana, the capital of Albania. We had two Couch Surfing
hosts lined up for Tirana in neighbouring apartments; neither of them had space
for all of us but between them we could all fit. Apparently addresses and road
names are a relatively new concept in Tirana, and street numbers are
essentially unheard-of, so being the intelligent beings that they are, Scott
and Cortney arranged for us to meet them at 4.15pm at a hotel near their homes,
one that we’d be able to find directions for on the internet, or ask people for
once we got there. Even though we only had 150 km and until 4.15pm to do it, we
had a feeling it might be a long drive, so left promptly in the morning
(relatively – we’re not very good morning people).

It was a beautiful day, the sun shining in the sky almost as
if to say “ha see, the flag’s not misleading or ironic at all”. It was still
bitterly cold though and the sunlight shimmered on the snow and ice which
covered the town. On the way to the border we noticed that most of the houses
and buildings we passed were flying the black double-headed eagle mounted on a
red background that is the Albanian flag.

The border crossing itself was a simple affair which took
only 25 minutes in total, and was our first of many snow covered border
crossings. We were whizzed through Macedonia’s checks, nothing more than a
quick glance and stamp in our passports. Most of the 25 minutes at the border
was spent driving through the completely uncleared, snow-covered, substantially
sized no man’s land. We expected to have a few problems entering Albania; nothing
major, just some rude or arrogant guards, a hefty compulsory insurance payment
and maybe some frustrating questions about our car documents and passports.
What we were faced with instead though was a lovely old man I would have been
happy to have as my grandfather (no offense Grandpa) who checked and stamped
our passports, had a quick look at our Carnet and registration documents, and
smilingly wished us well on our travels. We were quite surprised not to be
asked about insurance since our research told us that it was compulsory at the
border, so we’re not sure whether it was something that has been abolished, or if
this kind old man had decided to spare us, or perhaps he was just confused by
our papers and couldn’t be bothered.

Entering Albania we were struck by the beauty of the
landscape. Macedonia was very pretty, but this was exceptional. We wound our
way down the side of a mountain, a huge lake sparkling in the sun and
reflecting the blue sky, dissecting the jagged and snow-capped mountain ranges
on either side. The road was surprisingly well made and exceptionally well
cleared, but only wide enough for one car. Considering the recklessness of
Albanian drivers this seemed like a bit of a hazard on such a windy road with
so many blind corners.

Immediately we were struck, though not surprised considering
the reputation of Albanians, at how many foreign cars were on the road. Perhaps
the small, dull town where we stopped for lunch was a particularly popular
tourist destination for European holiday-makers (predominantly British, German,
Italian and Greek), or the part of me that likes to keep an open mind and give
everyone the benefit of the doubt suggests that there’s even a chance that
Albania is legitimately importing a plethora of vehicles from all over Europe.
The fact that almost all of these cars had at least one of the following: one
or more picked locks, a smashed window, torn registration/vignette stickers
from the windscreen, scratched licence plates and/or missing licence plates,
led us to the assumption that the reputation Albanians have across Europe for
stealing cars is well formed and undoubtedly based on truth.

We can’t help but wonder how car theft is viewed by the
average Albanian. Obviously the vast majority of residents won’t have anything
to do with the business, but is it something that is widely known about and
accepted? Are Albanians so used to seeing foreign cars that they don’t even
notice the picked locks and torn registration stickers like we do? Do they
actually believe that they have been imported legally and legitimately? Is
driving a foreign car some sort of status symbol? Or is it frowned upon by
those who realise it’s stolen?

Even though we suppose that they’re not in the habit of
stealing cars from inside Albania, we’re guessing they don’t get a whole lot of
foreign cars that have actually been driven there by their rightful owners, so
we were instinctively on the look-out for Trevor. We were careful to park in
view of the hamburger joint we ate lunch at, and on arrival in Tirana we were
dead set on parking securely. There weren’t many options and it was a great
pain to our kind hosts, but we found a car rental shop with a bit of extra land
which we were able to pay some guy to park in.

The sheer number of foreign cars on the road in Tirana was
even more confronting than it had been in the countryside, and now there was a
wider range of nationalities too. On top of the British, German, Italian and
Greek cars we mostly saw in the countryside, we now came across Swiss,
Austrian, Bulgarian, Hungarian, Czech, Norwegian, Swedish, Irish, French and
Spanish, amongst others. There were even licence plates from Massachusetts,
Virginia, Ontario, Pennsylvania, and a yellow Hummer from California. Scott
told us about an area in the city where he’d spotted an unusual density of
foreign cars with “for sale” signs, which he supposed to be the place where one
goes to buy a stolen overseas vehicle. So if anyone from Europe’s looking for a
missing car, we can give you directions for where you should go to look for it.

The fact that all these cars are let through the Albanian
borders isn’t surprising, but it makes us quite irate that so many stolen cars
are let through other borders. They don’t even make it difficult; the thieves
don’t need to produce fake paperwork or come up with a story or anything. When
a beat up Albanian van towing a 3 year old BMW with German licence plates, a
smashed window and a ripped registration sticker is driving East across a
border, why is the driver not asked for registration, ownership, insurance or
in fact any sort of documentation when crossing a controlled border? There’s no
way to get to Albania from the EU without crossing at least three or four
controlled borders, all of which we are stopped and questioned and possibly
searched at, yet if we were towing an obviously stolen car we wouldn’t even be
questioned. I also struggle to fathom why they’re not stopped by police on the
roads before reaching Albania. Why do the German, Austrian, Swiss, Italian and
British police not stop these people while they still can? Importing stolen
vehicles across a dozen countries is more straight forward than driving through
as a tourist, so no wonder the problem’s becoming ever more prevalent.

Contact us

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